"halfheartedly" poems
Gloomy morning attempts,
lazily an abstract,
on the damp canvas
eastern sky extends,
halfheartedly smearing,
dark monsoon clouds
along with some white and grey patches,
then slowly, warms up to a red mood;
as if by a second thought
adds full of flight of birds,
for an effect.
Avian splay, what a display!
The sun visibly gets pale,
upset being just a part of the picture,
unable to dominate, as his usual practice.
Not at all pleased at the emerging picture,
he sulks at the prospect,
of more dull, vain clouds rushing in,
spoiling the composition with their-
chance megalomaniacal dominance.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Longing through lonesome days,
supplicating the sun to set.
I anxiously await your arrival,
should consciousness concede to what I covet.
Only in fanciful fantasies,
in the delight of darkness,
and in our notoriously nocturnal nature,
have I ever happened upon happiness.
Give me the gift of your grace,
the spell of your sweet surrender,
and the temporarity of tonight
will flourish into forever.
In the day I may wistfully wander
halfheartedly and uncommitted,
but in dreams I know not the words
lonely or unrequited.
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
It's been a while;
Been a while since we've last talked.
This is harder than I think you think it is,
Having you leave me so distraught.
When I told you that I loved you,
I hope you know it was the truth.
You said it to me as well,
I hope you knew what those words could do.
Just so you know,
I've cried about all of this too.
I've cried for you,
And because....
Well, because of you.
I hope you read what I'm saying,
Because these aren't just random words.
Are you still there?
I'm not yet finished.
Just one last thing,
a few last little words.
Remember when you said goodbye?
You were sitting on the couch.
I was trying to hold back the tears that came,
While halfheartedly staring back at you.
You had this look in your eye,
as if no matter what I could have said,
It wouldn't have gotten through.
I could tell you were done,
we were over with,
we were through.
Hell, I was blindsided;
No doubt about that.
You beat me up
Pretty good,
But all along I knew you'd be good at that,
and all along I prayed
that it wouldn't end that way.
I just wish there was more,
More I could have told you.
Maybe to change your mind.
Maybe so I wouldn't even have to be here tonight.
Crying.
Praying.
Saying, although much too late,
I love you.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC
I halfheartedly grasped the ledge
Peering indecisively over the edge
Wondering perhaps in all seriousness if I should let go
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you do not experience it
Why and how could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
A little less grew my grip on the edge
Taking momentary notice of the crumbling ledge
My mind wanders into a place where all is nothingness
And nothingness is the norm
I let my mind freefall as they call it
Into oblivion and time dissolved it
Finding myself very comfortable in this environment
I wished never to return
So I concocted a simple cunning game
Whenever spoken to by the seemingly sane
Smiling wickedly
Into nodding confirming faces
I repeat these words
A freefall of the mind is what they call it '
And if you haven't experienced it
How could you possibly comment
And in all honesty, say it is an emotion you know?
@ copyright Tammy M Darby Nov. 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018
Nov 24, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
They'll ask
Of me,
Where is she?
Your significant otter,
And I'll answer
I know not
What's become of her
Like a balloon lost
I did not hold on tight,
And we'll look to the sky
As if there
And sudden
She'll appear,
She'll come back
They say,
And I'll agree
Somewhat
Half & halfheartedly,
Hoping upon hope
Behind my forlorn smile...
APAD15 - 010 © okpoet
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
On opposite sides of a telephone line
Signals from satellites bounce between
The waves of silence that are plopped uneasily
Within our absent minded conversation
I breathe, hoping it is not too loud
A sigh, a release from this purgatory
But any microscopic sound or respiratory
Inspires him to question me
"What are you doing?" he asked halfheartedly
While I lay and watch my wall paint crack
As minutes tick by, sigh after sigh
Of not knowing which words to utter
So I break the silence finally
With a insincere and restless goodnight
Because this is how you end a fight
But I still hung on to silence until the line died
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 11:35 PM UTC
I can’t breath.
Your holding a pillow over my face,
and call it love.
I am not quite sure when you and me
became we, and us and ours.
You talk about forever
and I listen, halfheartedly.
While watching your lips move,
I plan ways of escaping.
You were too much
and yet, still not enough.
After awhile I questioned
why I was holding on so tight.
I held on until my fingers ached
and calluses formed,
and it no longer felt right.
I was choking on the silence
of all the words I wasn’t saying.
Suffocating.
Slowly my heart became a tomb
and you, the mourner.
I am truly and deeply sorry for your loss.
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 6:15 AM UTC
you are endless wordplay recorded over a blank coffeeshop soundtrack. your lips throw out pun after pun, but your throat hums to the ghost of a song you swore you didn't listen to.
you are smiles across the breakfast table, blinking too-little sleep from your too-bright eyes, talking too loudly about how you don't need rest when you can get drunk on life. i laugh quietly. the dark circles give you away, my dear.
you are long nights and warm blankets and repeating "we should go to bed" until it sounds like a joke. it is hard to fall asleep when the blood is singing in my veins and my dreams are coming true right in front of me.
you are soft corners and sharp edges, too strong to stand firm and too fragile to break. your footsteps falter and even your confidence has cracks, but i'll admit it's comforting to know that you're just as scared as i am sometimes.
you are fast-talking and over-explaining, and you never do anything halfheartedly so you are also lying-too-easily. but it's okay i never wanted the truth anyway, i hated how it dimmed the memories and haunted the empty space on my mattress. i like how that space is taken up by the curve of your body instead.
you are called a paradox, white wolf or black sheep, predator and prey at odds and at peace. and you are called downward-flowing, like the way i am falling faster and harder for you. then again, maybe i like metaphors too much. maybe your name is just a name. maybe it's the most beautiful sound i've ever heard.
but i call you love because you are the only reason i have any inkling of what it means.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Driving off onto the 101 rush hour concrete jungle, there are no exits,
only obligations to stay stuck in my mobile cubicle moving at the speed of slow.
Hidden flowers on the hillside bloom away mocking my insanity,
they cheer me on to see beyond these gray prison bevels.
Gray blocks hollow until they're filled with my humanity,
making me take the choices reaped with devils.
I feel like I've lived a day in one hour, it's so early it could be midnight.
Twisting and turning in my brain, the sun suddenly ridicules, feeding me a fresh case of insane.
I'm at a point of sorrow, sorrow of an exceptional quality, Grade A-farm raised, take two tomorrow.
The raven croaked nevermore, Juliet is the sun, dangren-burang1.
We have to go. I'm almost happy here2. Complacency rots insides, then refills with fear.
So - Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make3. Clamoring for sight.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to **** There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof4. Filled with truths, synapse salvoes, loves, and drugs. We love what we eat and eat who we are. GERManic germs looking for psychological thrills. You work the guns, I'll rattle the hills.
Smoking cannabis to an over-extent, hope lost, old kung-fu and 80's movies won, I eat smoke for breakfast.
This sun is still mocking me, “Start your day, be productive, make a baby, then expiry.”
Stepping into society, I'm a satanic leaf-tailed gecko wanting freedom, abdicate, and let go your kingdom.
Halfheartedly half washed dishes in my sink; this entropy roller-coaster of highs and lows drives me to drink and think, then drink and smoke, making life one strange syrupy green swirl of mammarys and calamities filled with brevity’s of rarities.
5,000 images, 2 comedies, and a numb right arm later I've turned into dark matter, invisibly pulling all that matters together into a forever stretched infinitely, literally making synergies out of life-energies.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.
Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.
My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.
She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.
I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.
How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.
I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.
How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
I'm nearly catatonic.
My eyes shift spasmodic in their sockets.
They're closed, and it's far too quiet
for the racket ripping my inner eardrums.
Reliving the sound of grim acceptance.
Slack faced,in the blackness.
"I guess this is it".
I said it then. And I say it now.
Didn't make a terrible difference,did it?
Gifted quesarito wrappers are
halfheartedly crumpled in the floor.
I was dead, I died, I'm dead once more.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
I call it the Changeover;
like an analogue radio searching for a signal
sometimes it's clear
sometimes it's static
sometimes it's in between
somewhere between far away and near
somewhere lost in the middle
between Signal and Static.
Clear Day the signal reaches out its arms as far as the eye can see
and the ears can hear
and the senses can feel
and taste buds pop and linger
and revel in new experience
and comfort in knowing
and wrapped in wonderment.
Changeover Day is somewhere between Clear Day and Nowhere
struggling to tune in
backwards or forwards
or sideways or upwards
to something
to anything that resembles a signal
like hearing voices in another room
an argument through a wall
the indecipherable murmur of music
the clamber of ushered noise
the mishmash and cacophony
like a symphony of Morse code.
Static Day is dark day
there is no signal
no senses
no sound
only indeterminate fuzz
and the crackle of broken glass
and the foghorn
and the white noise
the confusion and delusion
the paranoia of shifting jigsaws
changing pieces that never fit together
can almost make out a face through the frosted glass
the smear like bird **** on a window
halfheartedly wiped with lackadaisical whimsy
and greasy chip shop newspaper.
In the Static there is no wind
no heart to beat
no empathy or sympathy
just
cold
hard
steel
out of place in a room of feathers and feeling.
You just have to ride out the storm
tell yourself:
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
it'll be calm soon
The Changeover
from Static to Signal
and the welcome return of voices
and breathing
and beating
and feeling.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
How about that gasoline
in Autumn rain puddles?
How about them cars that don't start,
can't start.
I just wanted to start.
Playing games like this never amused me much;
I guess I'm more of a reader than a writer than a toy-game-player.
I want the facts.
None of this horseshit media circus,
ignorance is neither knowing nor caring.
Nay bliss,
It was bliss on those cold winter nights,
night twilights pressed hard against the city-smogged sky
where the gases of sugar beets and petroleum reflect back down orange.
Orange on the snow and orange on snow drifts and snow flakes on your eyelashes.
Little orange dusts
**** your lashes grow long)*
dusts fallen halfheartedly like rain in the fall
and rain puddles shone red
and blue
and green
and orange, orange, orange...
Always orange.
Like gasoline in rain puddles,
gasoline in cars that won't start.
They can't start, don't start;
My engine must be misfiring.
(How about them metaphors for a heart?)
Will you call me when you get there?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
The question rings as a rattle on my cage.
"I am writing poetry" I answered.
He mumbled, "I thought you were playing Mahjong."
I exhaled hard, "I was. I won two games. " I said with a little aggravation.
"Hum..." he said, then all fell silent.
I did not respond.
Only the sound of my fingers typing on the keyboard continued
Until he could not stand it anymore, "There's news today. The USA is pulling out of Syria."
"Hum, that's good." I said.
He said, "I am sure the families of the soldiers that are coming home are happy."
"Yeah, they probably are." I said halfheartedly as I continued to write.
"Israel is still worried about their borders."
Sarcastically I replied, "Maybe they will build a wall."
The sounds of tap-tap-tap on the keyboard, continuing...
He said, "Yeah, maybe Trump will help them."
I stopped typing.
We laughed and I continued to write.
It was quiet for just a moment.
Then he said, "What'cha doing now?
We both laughed out loud!!!
And I finished this writing.
Dec 27, 2018
Dec 27, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
with one finger in his mother’s belt loop the child lowers then lifts then lowers again his free hand without touching once the grocery’s tile. the long front pocket of his jacket boasts from one end the upper body of a woman whose ******* have been covered with one stamp each and from the other the woman’s bare feet I’m guessing won’t make the trip. the child’s two younger siblings recognize me from last week when I halfheartedly rolled over them with my cart and they graciously go stomach first to ground with their fists under them as if they’ve been given charge of a rose but are unsure which has it. the mother looks at me like I am long division to be avoided much the same as I was looked at in my prime. I have no cart this day so instead I mock stand on the boy and girl making sure my balance keeps me. the mother says enough and presses the right side of her nose with the back of her wrist which upon removal has on it a spot of blood I follow to her hidden belly button at which the transference clings and then reveals. I want to tell her my brothers never retrieved a single bright kite from a tall tree nor did they ever pull from their loose and ***** jeans any kind of toad that lived.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC
There is a stillness
that lies beyond the tallest trees;
beyond the quiet nesting
of daylight summer birds
Halfheartedly
I am reluctant
to close my weary eyes,
to miss this beautiful cool
refreshing bliss
of serenity once more
bound in endless flow
How contemptuous a nightly lull
that breaks the sun's disquietness
of the day,
renders day into night,
and twilight shadows
that playfully scorn
our daytime senses
We are all rocked in the cradle of mother night
she sings
her veiled and peaceful
insightful sound
I suckle
like so many others
on her breast of cool refreshing peace
I absorb her calming black-night-lactose
that gently whispers to sleep
the energetic day child
within us all
As cool water consumes fire
As night consumes the heated day
I think beyond
the stars
that now shine
the past starry nights
I think about trillions upon trillions
of stars overwhelmed
by the black empty
outer limits
that encircle and distantly
embrace them
I think about
the greater part
of the universe,
making ours and all other
daylight galaxies appear
but like so much dull
insignificant fluorescent glow
And because how mind boggling,
awesome and vast
is the eternal cosmic night sky
And how belligerent to think
all galaxies' day-suns
like our Sun,
being the all powerful
when they are but only
minuscule stars winking and
swimming passively
in the greater awesome devouring blackness
LOOK NOW!...a comet
streaks across the heavens
like a rapid musicians
hypnotic metronome
then stops
then fades away
while the rest of the heavens
sing along
in blinking symphony
Influenced by my most
inner ease
my total being joins
this starry rhythm
I sway like a calm breezy lull
and half shuffle
my feet
over the midnight countryside
of stillness...
... ever sooooo...gently
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC
Perception has always been people's reality,
What we see is what we mainly look for.
We leave good probabilities for an ideal possibility,
Putting an 'open' sign in front of a closed door.
Today, the social voices are louder,
Where the old rich are still deities and privileged trends are gods,
We fall prey to what they cater,
Wishfully hoping that we're favored by the odds.
Addicted to the momentary high of a 'match',
Eyes glued to a notification of a new tap.
Everyone believes they are a catch,
Idols deserving of all the world's slow clap.
The now is defined by open button downs,
Pushed back hair and pumped up arms.
Jeans are tight, matched with shoes that are brown,
Anything out of place will trigger an alarm.
How can the average hopeless romantic fight,
When wit and wisdom sums up his might?
He sips his wine during the night,
Closing his eyes halfheartedly wishing to see a new light.
He has many reasons to be happy,
Yet he's looking for something that can make him smile.
It may sound really petty,
But for this, he's ready to walk another mile.
We are tired of not dying, of merely existing,
Looking for perceived purpose and minute meaning.
One wonders when one can start living genuinely free,
One hopes to learn how it feels to be.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
“Well if the shoe fits.”
And it never does,
either too tight or too loose,
with my paint-thinner feet,
narrow, knifing through the canvas
heels flopping out at the back
toes mashing together at the front,
pacing between shelves at the store,
growing anxious mom impatient
in the waiting chair,
shifting between sizes,
walking prison-style with shoes zip-tied,
a second, third opinion,
salesclerk gets out the foot measure,
I take my socks off,
put them back on (are they too thick/too thin?)
feet either mashed or cavernous
if the salesclerk crouches down and presses a thumb at the end
and gives me an okay sign
I’ll walk around with ****** toes and bruised heels the rest of my life
because only others can convince me what my body truly feels
because mental illness is impalpable and therefore
unbelievable
and broken bones and black eyes
will perpetually surpass what lingers in my troubled mind
for I know not what the body wants (it’s *** I think)
no,
I don’t know how it’s supposed to act,
or feel,
so I can let someone else decide for me,
as I let mom order my Happy Meals,
and buy my clothes she picked out,
and tell me what kind of girls I like,
and make my doctors’ appointments,
and file my taxes,
and pay my bills
(I just give her the money),
and I am convinced my body and mind
do not exist on the same plane,
and whatever signals they send each other
I render skewed
and the messenger disabled
and tonight I told mom
the shoes I’ve worn for five days straight
don’t fit
and my feet hurt
and she sighs and laughs simultaneously alongside the family
as she hands me the number to the store
and I halfheartedly wish
she’d make the call
or lean down and press a thumb
to the end of my shoe
and convince me it fits.
--Home, August 19, 1:41 AM
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 2:21 AM UTC
A freezing drop of water,
oozing from a distraught cloud,
(wanted to be a feather in the
cloud's dark watery wing
till it would in torrents rain
in as much distant a land possible
that thirsts,while reeling under drought,)
forced out, slips in to the sultry air,
halfheartedly,
not even aware of
what it is really,
quickly becomes steam
in another minute,
now, fails to recognize itself,
subjected to an identity crisis.
A story of self oblivious sacrifice,
that speaks of pain, unexpressed.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
The streets outside my window are deep black,
Slick with silver rain,
Illuminated completely, every so often, by a sudden violent flash.
And I think in flashes like that
At this late hour.
I think in strobes
Of your face.
I don't know why I wonder what you're doing.
I don't know why I wonder
How your skin would look
Lit by a sheen of rainwater
In those flares of white lightning.
What shadows would deepen your collarbones
And how your eyes would look,
Half lit with their part mischievous, part vulnerable glint.
I don't know why I keep stumbling into the thought of you
As I travel my mind in the dead of night.
I wonder if her lips are soft.
And I shake myself,
Think it would surely be wrong to find out.
You and I are so oddly close
So suddenly
And I could lose that.
And here there is not much else I have
To lose.
And yet
I think in flashes tonight.
A glimpse of skin in my mind,
Skin and words and rain ssssliding down the windowpane.
A burst of feeling that I blush my way out of
In the dark
And try to turn platonic.
In these past days, I've tried to bend my heart's gaze away
But I keep stealing little glances,
Truth be told.
I am curious. I am fascinated. I am drawn.
And it is late, and I am uncertain,
And outside the rain comes down with wanton savagery,
Total abandon,
And something in me leaps at the sound
And calls for me to answer it.
Something inside me surges like lightning,
A white hot bolt singing through my bones
Making them ache sweetly,
And I want to come down, as well.
With total abandon.
Just fall.
I try to shut it off,
But only casually, only halfheartedly.
In the deepest part of me,
I rejoice that I barely know you,
For there is so much to discover, so much to see.
In the private room of my mind,
I am shamelessly captivated.
Who are you?
What are you?
I want to know. I want to know everything.
I want to read your soul.
Rain your words down on me like a sudden storm,
I want them all.
I want them worked into my skin, slow.
What am I saying? Who are you?
Who knows:
Who are you
So immense
So enigmatic
That I must think of you only in parts,
In little glimpses?
That I fear the way I
Must
Think of you?
Who are you
That I am stirred and uneasy
That my thoughts arc toward you as if pulled by gravity?
Who are you
That I am so caught
And so unprepared?
You see...
I so rarely meet anybody
I want to feel with.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:54 AM UTC
It always rains here
Puddles form in the valleys of the cracked pavement
The flimsy gutters snap and stick out like broken fingers
Water flowing in choppy patterns
Slapping loudly against the slick ground
Water always falls where we walk
Our shoes are always wet
Raindrops break though the cold, thick fog that creeps down our throats
We always happen to forget our umbrellas
When it rains all day, I look at the grey blanket of a sky
And think its eyes must hurt terribly
Thanking God we brought our jackets
We converge in the 20 by 20
Linoleum floored room
Hidden away behind the mossy brick walls that catch the rain
We sit in places where the floor is less wet
Letting out hair dry and hands warm
Against the wheezing old heater
Which two lucky ******** use as a seat
Heads crack against the old porcelain water fountain
And feet trip over the wobbly doorstops
We carve our names in the walls
And scuff our shoes on the floor
I bury my nose in the dusty pages of a book
And laugh halfheartedly when someone calls my name
We huddle like penguins in the Arctic
That's Seattle I suppose
And we have never been happier, I think.
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 10:08 PM UTC
If luck knocks on your louvered door you will have a chance to fight your enemy. You will stand up like a crackerjack prize and pay no mind to the man that broke your backbone.
Into the windowless courtroom you will trek. People lined up on hand carved benches, staring with unaroused expressions, waiting warily for their names to be called.
You feel your breath halfheartedly fill your emaciated lungs with foul and cumbersome air as you survey the miserable scene and avoid locking eyes with the man that was disguised as your one true love.
You wear a band of rubber which you snap on your wrist at the first sign of weakness so you stay focused on the gavel’s exclamation.
He tells your long-lost spouse from another life with another wife that this is not Watergate and “I don’t recall” will not suffice in his civil courtroom.
His honor dishonors his woven white robe when he yells in your direction with agape red mouth and judgmental judicial tone. When the courage strikes your hand-stitched smile will widen with words and you will command an audience of perjurers who will point forceful fingers at their prior partners that used to be ****** lovers and now sit dead pan wantonly waiting to bleat themselves dry.
Slam the gavel while the corn cracks in the microwave bag until all the edges have been popped out and fairness has been forced through the funnel like liquid butter with a diet coke to wash it down.
You walk away, down the dark labyrinth of hallowed halls snapping your gum and tip-tapping your heels as you flee from the referee who does not understand your half eaten heart with the wiggly worm within its wind-up walls. He will pronounce your fate with a backhanded expletive and a muffled “adjourned.”
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 3:10 PM UTC
You crawl beneath my timid heart
Deploying those feeble desires
I speak with vivacious eloquence
But, I have not changed my reasoning--
Or, lack there of
I dive, head-strongly, into the same folly
Dreaming dreams I've halfheartedly dreamed before
With vehemence as my blind witness:
I stab at the sands, to search for sentiment
Or, lack there of
[The sentiment I had unnervingly hurled into the sea]
There is nothing to gain from this redundant Intention
Crestfallen, it follows me, with all of my lost chances
And, I have Run...out of places to peddle my Love
Or, lack there of...
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 12:51 PM UTC
" you’re a walking expression" he said confidently, his head tilted on it’s axis, gazing downward into the wine that he swirled so violently. i felt a little empty. he was handsome. i could see the winged tips of his ribcage protrude toward me whenever he stretched or adjusted his posture. "lately i feel like i’m always having miscarriages with my creativity." i said, my eyes transfixed on the miniture hurricane of burgundy. "like i’m there, everything is correct and pure and plentiful- and then it just kinda crumbles halfheartedly back into chemistry". i never say things like this. he nodded wistfully. i couldn’t tell if it was forced or not. he followed it by adding some statement more profound than my own and suggested that we head out into the night. it was getting late. i nodded lightly a few times and began to clumsily button my flannel up across my flat chest and noticed him staring strongly at me across the table. "you know" he smiled, zipping up his coat, "any woman can look **** getting undressed, but it takes a charming one to carry the same effect while putting on clothes.” i laughed, admired the wit, wondered if the line was borrowed, felt nauseous, carried on.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC